The Smell of Fresh Cut Pine

I was born with sawdust in my veins. Hands that itch

when the lumberyard calls my name. Give me oak, give me chair,

give me walnut grain. There's a peace in the shop no preacher can

explain. Oh, the smell of fresh cut pine. Lord,

it takes me home. The scream of the blade and the whistle of

the plane. I'm building something true with these two rough hands of mine.

In a world gone plastic, I'm still carving out time. Yeah,

the smell of fresh cut pine. It's the sweetest thing I know. I can take